


a dance, a game

by kinpika



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, Forehead Kisses, OC Kiss Week 2018, Rocky start for a relationship, dual inquisitor au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 02:25:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14251056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinpika/pseuds/kinpika
Summary: As the others would put it, bishop takes knight, roughly and awkwardly, against the door frame.





	a dance, a game

**Author's Note:**

> OC kiss week back in January on [tumblr](http://hotlineaisui.tumblr.com/post/169541108200/day-one). Combined both prompts.
> 
> Shiral Ralaferin Lavellan, born in the Dales but raised in the Free Marches, and Garahel, a city elf from Halamshiral, who found his way to Haven following the fires.

Truly, she could not place her finger on why Garahel had begun to irritate her. A familiar kind of irritation, too deep under the skin to itch, making her far too aware of his every move. Not so slinky and not so sly that he went unnoticed, more of a skulk into the far corner of the tavern. Shiral could only imagine the kind of dressing up and down they had given him to incite such a reaction.

But there he was, at the edge of her peripherals. Always somewhere in her orbit, like he owned it. Perhaps what irritated Shiral the most was that Garahel was not simply aware of the situation at hand. Communication wasn’t her strongest point either, and Creators strike her down before she ever considered telling Garahel how she felt.

( _how she felt?_ )

Clicking her tongue, Shiral turns to her cousin, trying to focus on how the younger girl was so blindly enamoured by all the Qunari currently present. A lack in communication skills was perhaps a strong point of their clan, even, as Shiral recalled at least three incidents alone where talking would’ve helped. Whether those incidents involved her was not going to be said, but the ale given to her was getting warm, and Kahari’s cheeks were beginning to flush.

A convenient rescue, definitely. At least those around were courteous enough to not encourage Kahari to get herself drunk under the table, and with some help, Shiral gets an arm around her shoulders. “Come now, _da’len_ ,” she chides, voice not quite near the strength of their Keeper, but enough that Kahari only complains enough to drag her feet.

“You’re no _fu~n_ ,” she taunts, and it’s true. Shiral won’t deny it. Instead, she ignores the jab, guiding Kahari through Skyhold to the quarters set aside for them.

They are heard, and two hunters move, helping their First to her tent. Kahari is languid and laughing, singing a tune loudly. Shiral would give her exactly five minutes, before following. Enough time to thank the clan members, excuse her behaviour, clean up her mess. Even out here, where it was Shiral with the mark, the acknowledgement, she still had to pick up after the First.

“Shiral.”

Whilst she definitely felt like she had jumped six feet in the air, Shiral could attest to not moving an inch, judging by how clenched her body became. Holding her breath, she turned after a solid minute. Just when she’d forgotten to keep watch, Garahel appeared. Perhaps, if she was feeling particularly generous, she would compare him to the hero of the same name — if only to rile him up enough to leave. But words are lost, as Shiral doesn’t know how to decipher the expression on his face.

“Garahel,” she greets, as smoothly as she could manage. Which wasn’t much, but Garahel didn’t seem to have much in the way of breaking down expression, tone. Something about how everything was so upfront in Halamshiral, because no one could trust the humans, so they had to trust each other.

And yet, he was a master of masks, despite it all. “I saw you leave. Are you alright?”

Concern, genuine enough that Shiral was almost personally affronted by such a thing. Their relationship contained running in circles around each other, but this was stepping over a line Shiral was not aware they had drawn. Had he drunk enough too, for such a thing? A loosened tongue was dangerous indeed.

“Our First was ready for bed.” Motioning with her head, Shiral catches how her clansmen seemed interested in the exchange. This was bound to get back to Lavellan, or even Ralaferin, and she didn’t need her mother to decide it was time to return.

“Ah. I see. I hadn’t realised…”

Shiral could not do much besides level him with a stare. What did he expect? Garahel avoided her gaze, and oh, how she wanted to pick his brain. To _understand_. Amongst her people, this behaviour would speak of a person’s intent. The mixed words, the hand movements, the eyes. If one ignored just how he simply smelled _human_ , one could almost confuse Garahel for Dalish.

Granted, if they were blind and didn’t know any better. But, ah, there was that shift again. Subtle twist of a gear, and it was another face greeting her. Strange of him to show her those ones, where he was meek and unassuming, when she saw _him_.

“Anything else?” Shiral presses, if only because Kahari’s singing had come to an end, and she didn’t want the girl to drown in her own vomit. That was not something she’d be able to explain through a letter (and several people may be suspicious).

“Care to join me for a walk?”

Behind her, a hunter chokes. Another snorts. Shiral simply feels her cheeks warm, and narrows her eyes. Garahel remained calm, absolute and resolute. His eyes did not betray him. No motive in his suggestion.

Turning, Shiral motions to one of the hunters, Ziva. Tall, brash, young. One of Kahari’s personal guards, and overly proud of such a position. Perfect. “Take care of Kahari for the moment. I will return soon.”

Ziva smiles, and the “ _dareth shiral_ ” was almost mockingly sweet. Safe journey her _ass_. Ignoring the snickers, Shiral motions for Garahel to lead. Better to be safely away from the gossiping hunters. They had enough to talk about to last them the next few centuries, and Shiral did not want to be wholly a part of it.

They walk a distance, up the ramparts. Shiral thinks of the Emerald Forest, missing the comfort of trees. Familiarity. Not, she notes, the broad back of a city elf, blood too mixed and crossed to fit into what the humans approved of elves to look like. Perhaps that was just the Dales influence, as Shiral recalled growing up there, until her tenth birthday.

Perhaps, it was just simply Garahel.

“Where are you leading me, Garahel? It is late.” She did not feel like she should be reminding him of how high the moon was sitting in the sky, but he was wandering aimlessly, and Shiral preferred a destination.

But alas, it was too much to expect him to simply answer her. So, Shiral continued to follow, with only mild complaining, as Garahel continued on through to the main building. Their quarters? Shiral could not read him from behind, but she recognised the familiar steps towards the room set aside for them. Only three times had she spent the night in there, twice at Garahel’s insistence as he left for who knows where, and once because it was where they had taken her for healing.

It was not her room. They may have insisted on it being the Heralds’, the Inquisitors’, but people forgot they were two, not just one.

“If you wanted an escort to your room, I’m sure there are plenty who would be happy to offer.”

Garahel stops then, a roll of the shoulders. Not a threatening sign. No, he was never threatening with her. Careful, decisive, distant. But no aggression, not when she had slapped him for speaking ill of her people, not when the Orlesians had assaulted him in Val Royeaux, and not even in the Winter Palace, where he stood higher than he had ever before.

Creators, it just pissed her off with how _nice_ Garahel could certainly be.

“Shiral, I just want to talk.”

“A bedroom at this time is not a prime place for a simple _chat_. Even you should be aware of that, Garahel.”

Was this a part of the dance? Circle back, right foot following left. Idle banter was common, right? Was Shiral supposed to laugh behind her hand, and push him gently in the arm, like all those noblewomen do? Her hands were calloused and strong, not dainty and soft. There was no dismay in her at all with that fact, because she was Dalish, and those women were strangers.

Realisation seems to have dawned on him. Shiral could attest it to the time of day, perhaps the alcohol passed so freely around. Or how Garahel was just so utterly blind at the best of times. Open face, palms faced slightly towards her, body angled just so. Not outward threat. A potential interest. His mind might not understand what his body does.

It was the Maker he prayed to, wasn’t it? Well, perhaps Garahel should be asking the Maker for some guidance, because nothing in him seemed to add up.

“I didn’t mean—I just…”

“Yes, yes. Shall I take my leave, then?”

Garahel was far too fast. Shiral doesn’t react quick enough, to flick his hands away from her shoulders. All she can do is go rigid, eyes wide, watching him as he drew closer. They had rules about this sort of thing, spoken and otherwise. To put a stopper on anything that could not be, that _would_ not be.

And Shiral would die before—

That thought doesn’t end, because she lets out an incredulous “you kissed my _forehead_?!”

Upon her brow, she can feel the touch of his skin, and potentially the remains of lips only just wet. But Garahel releases her immediately, hands behind his back. Two steps taken back until he meets the door, an _oof_ leaving him at the action. “Sorry. I’ve been meaning to do that for a while.”

“You’ve been meaning to kiss my forehead ‘ _for a while_ ’?” Why were men so _awful_ at this? Shiral didn’t dare touch the spot he had kissed, and could only continue to stare, confusion still leaving her slack.

What was this? Was there a step she didn’t follow? A procedure that she had missed? Garahel didn’t know a flirt from a fist, man so blind to several sisters in Redcliffe practically throwing themselves at him that Varric had to explain it later. After that, where Garahel went to was not her business, but the embarrassed look he had said something else.

Just—

Why—

Oh, _fuck it._

Shiral pushes herself forward, enough of the dance, enough of the game. He was a part of it, whether he believed it or not.

As the others would put it, bishop takes knight, roughly and awkwardly, against the door frame.


End file.
